“I do not think that he does,” Sharr replied. “Master Galliöm must be helping him.”
Startled, Zarifa gazed at the image of Sharr for a moment before regaining her senses. “What do you wish me to do?”
“The high priestess of the illustrious Temple of Baalbek should rest now and await our orders.” The face of Sharr faded away and Zarifa, along with the two other priests assisting her, brought the three orbs down from their orbit. She and the priests were drenched and nauseated.
“He called you ‘high priestess’, did you hear that?” one said excitedly.
“I noticed, Ashraf,” Zarifa replied, “and I would have been overjoyed under different circumstances.”
“Why not be happy now?” asked the second priest.
“Because, my dear Salbaal, if this crisis is not resolved to the satisfaction of the Temple, there may not be a priesthood left to speak of.”
The two men who had stooped down to wash their necks stood up, taking no notice of the water that was now running down their priestly garbs. They looked at Zarifa, uncomprehending.
“Do you realize who this young man is?” she asked. “This man slew an urkuun and is now bent on our destruction. Baal has not faced a threat of this magnitude for the past six hundred years, and I am not sure we fully understand how to respond to it. Sharr is the high priest of Babylon, the most powerful priest of our order, and not even he truly knows what to do in this situation.”
She bowed before the two priests and walked away, just as the gong for the evening prayer reverberated through the great hall.
“How can a helpless young man constitute a danger to the Temple?” Salbaal asked Ashraf. “Did the Temple not curse every location related to the ancient prophecy?”
“We will have to bide our time,” Ashraf said philosophically. “Only time will tell what will be and how events will unfold.”
Zarifa reached her apartments and leaned her back against the cold hard stone. Early this morning, General Nebo flew into a fit of rage when he found out that Ahiram had escaped. The general slew the two soldiers who returned without the prisoner and sent High Riders in every direction searching for the run-away. Her personal Orb of Seeing began to glow. What is it now? She was exhausted and longed for a bit of rest. Kalibaal’s face appeared in the orb. Zarifa bowed diffidently before Babylon’s second-in-command, the heir apparent to Sharr.
“My dear Zarifa, Sharr is aware of Nebo’s intent concerning the Seer. Nebo must not be allowed to succeed in finding the Seer. This matter is confidential and must not be shared with anyone. It is imperative that you use whatever means necessary to prevent Nebo from being carried away by rash vengeance. He undermines the stability and security of the Temple. The young man will serve Baal’s purposes whether he wants to or not, and in the end, the Temple will be strengthened. The High Priest has asked Babylon to summon Nebo back to the eastern front. The General will eventually be dispatched to face the Marada. In the meantime, you must not fail us. The Temple prevails.” The orb grew cold once more. Zarifa wished that Bahiya were present to counsel her, but she knew that Bahiya was never coming back, and that she, Zarifa, was left to her own devices in dealing with this issue.
Before she had time to recollect her thoughts, a servant knocked frantically at the door. “O Priestess Zarifa, O Priestess Zarifa,” he moaned. “O Priestess—”
“Come in,” she said. She repeated her command and still no one came. Irritated, she went to the door and opened it. A servant stood with hands joined in a gesture of supplication and an expression of fear and sorrow on his face, as though saying, “I tried.” Behind him stood General Nebo, grinning. The general pushed the servant forward and he fell to the ground. The man of war stepped over him and sheathed a curved dagger laced with curses similar to the curses found on Sowasian weapons.
“General Nebo! What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning of this, my beautiful Zarifa,” replied the general who was uncomfortably close, “is that I want you to tell your priest in Babylon that I will not be dictated to. I am in charge of protecting the interest of the Temple, and your priestly lot will have to abide by my orders.”
Zarifa moved away from Nebo. “I will personally convey your message to Sharr who, I am certain, will give it the attention it deserves. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” replied Nebo, who seemed to enjoy this little exchange, “a High Rider came back and informed us that the dog that has escaped from the dungeon is on his way to the Black Robes. He has killed five of our men and seriously injured another. Could you convey this information to your petty priest? I am sure he will give it his utmost attention.” Nebo turned around and was about to leave when he came back and grabbed the priestess by the arm. He stood so close that he was breathing on her neck. “I am awaiting your answer with great impatience, and I hope it will be agreeable. Very agreeable.”
Zarifa snatched her arm from his grip, waited for him to leave, and slammed the door. She heard General Nebo burst out in laughter as he walked away. Since his return to the Temple of Baalbek, Nebo had laid claim to the first priestess and had told her in no uncertain terms that he considered himself to be her rightful husband and master. At first, Zarifa had been amused and somewhat flattered that a high-born general of the army of Baal would be interested in her, but when she realized that he would not take no for an answer, she grew progressively annoyed with his advances. Now, she was positively angry for allowing herself to be in this difficult position. Nebo must leave Baalbek and not come back, not ever again, thought the first priestess. Certainly, the news that Ahiram had slain five High Riders complicated matters, but she knew that in the grand scheme of things, these “calculated casualties,” as Sharr would call them, were part of his plan.
She paced back and forth, trying to think of a solution that would satisfy Sharr and would take care of the general. What a fool, she thought. Does Nebo think that the Temple survives and thrives based on military might alone? Does he not understand the awesome power that Baal had placed at the fingertips of his priests? A plan formed in her mind that she hesitated to give into. It involved an Adorant, but she knew that whoever called on the order of Sarand would end up owing Sarand a piece of their soul. Still, Sarand might be assuaged if she were given a measure of control over the general. She knew she had to discuss the plan with Sharr, for to execute it without his assent meant certain death, or worse. Nebo needs to be collared before he runs amok. I will talk to Sharr tomorrow and decide on the next course of action.
Ahiram woke up suddenly. It was night. He lay motionless, observing the dark shapes of the trees that swayed in imitation of mourners at a funeral. Clouds that had gathered over the mountain, momentarily blotting the stars. We better reach the top of the mountain before the storm, he thought. Slowly, he got up and looked around him. Sheheluth was already up and had water and bread for him to eat. He smiled and stretched, wishing he were near the brook to wash his face and chase away slumber, then sat down to eat. The bread was delicately flavored and when he took a bite, it melted in his mouth. The water was clear and refreshing. Intrigued, he looked at Sheheluth, and she smiled.
“Tell me, Sheheluth,” Ahiram said, “where did the snakes come from?”
“From under the grass.”
“What a coincidence. They showed up right when we needed them.”
Sheheluth did not reply.
The Silent knew that there was no point in pursuing this conversation any further. Sheheluth spoke as much as she was going to say and no more. Certainly, Ahiram could have asked how she made such good bread under these strained circumstances, but he knew that he would not receive a satisfying answer. Having finished eating, he rose and listened to the sounds of the night. The underwood was dark under the thick foliage of the trees. The handle of his sword glittered, but it was still. He stood next to Sheheluth and looked toward the mountains, having memorized every detail, then took a rope and gave the young woman one end. “Tie this
to your waist and then across your shoulders.” He did the same. “Walk behind me, and no matter what, keep quiet.” Sheheluth nodded as she followed silently.
They reached the edge of the forest. Moonlight splashed the face of large boulders with a soft white light. The stars littered the bright cupola overhead. He turned around and saw that Sheheluth was following with great ease. She was surefooted and did not show any sign of fright. Ahiram nearly stumbled on a rock and was reminded that he had better look in front of him instead of watching Sheheluth, who seemed to be doing just fine. I barely recognize her, he thought. Is this the same Sheheluth I contended with while in Mycene? The one who urged me to kill the fake Ebaan? I don’t recognize her. How strange.
After a short while, they reached the foot of the mountains and began their ascent. Ahiram followed a path that zigzagged along the face of the massif to facilitate the horse’s climb. This was certainly not the fastest way to climb the mountain, but the only way if they wanted to keep the horse. He allowed them to rest only when absolutely necessary. The Silent kept checking the dark clouds anxiously, hoping the storm would not be upon them midway through, for Finikian storms could be brutal. But the rain did not come, and they forged ahead until they reached a mid-sized platform. There, the mountainside was steep and flat, which meant that they would not be able to climb up with the horse. Ahiram went to the edge of the platform and looked down. He walked the opposite way and looked down again. “No other way,” whispered the young man. This is going to be harder than I expected. The horse stood undisturbed next to them. The Silent sat down to think. Sheheluth strode toward the mountainside and felt it with her hands.
“We may be able to climb up, but we will have to leave the horse here.” She turned around and was astounded to see Ahiram sitting on the back of the horse. He motioned to her to come. She walked over, wondering what he planned to do. He took a shirt from his bag and cut it in half.
“Let’s blindfold the horse,” he said. “I don’t want to scare him.”
“You’re going to fly with the horse? This is insane.”
“Fly, fly,” Ahiram grumbled, “it’s more like hover. I’m going to hover with you and the horse until we reach the top of the mountain.”
“We could fall,” Sheheluth objected.
“The longer we stay here, the easier we make it for the Temple to locate us. Now, please blindfold the horse.”
When Sheheluth was done, he said, “Climb up and sit in front of me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t worry, it is not as strange as it seems.”
Slowly, she climbed up and sat in front of him. The front hoofs of the horse lifted off the ground, then the hind ones followed suit. The horse teetered in the air as it lifted from the ground, keeling from side to side, then began moving slowly up. Using El-Windiir’s artifacts to lift them all up seemed a far-fetched idea but worth trying, given their predicament. Sheheluth held her breath as they continued to ascend, then, abruptly, she felt as if her stomach was in her throat and wanted to throw up. The horse neighed in protest and Ahiram struggled to control their flight.
“The wind is stronger than I thought,” he grumbled. “It’s throwing off my concentration.” They resumed their ascent but then dropped abruptly for a split second. “Don’t scream,” he whispered. “Keep calm and close your eyes, if you want. We’re almost there.” The cliff was three hundred feet high, and after one or two additional slips, they reached the mountaintop. He leaned to the right and the horse moved laterally until it stood mere inches from the top of the hill, where Ahiram set him down gently on a soft patch of grass. Ahiram breathed a sigh of relief and jumped down. He stretched and was about to help Sheheluth down from the horse when his sword quivered violently. He lifted his arm and Noraldeen landed in his open palm.
Ahiram stood still, surveying the surroundings. The terrain was covered with small bushes and brambles. Rocks and smaller boulders littered the ground as if a giant hand had thrown them carelessly. Nothing else was visible.
The Silent swayed his sword left to right, and as he did so, the vibration increased, reaching its apex when the sword pointed straight ahead, then decreased as the sword moved away. Yet, there was nothing to see. He reached into his bag, pulled out the mask of gold, and placed it on his face. He looked again, and this time he saw a strange creature that looked like a large bird with two pairs of wings, the front pair being much smaller than the back pair. Three claws protruded from each of the four wings. Its beak was elongated like that of a pelican but stronger. The beast had two curved horns above its small round head, and its lidless eyes were black. It stood on its clawed feet, and was looking at the Silent.
The mask allowed Ahiram to see the beast as though in plain daylight. It was magical and dangerous, but not as dangerous as the rider sitting on its back. Shaped like a man, he seemed hollow and without substance. A tattered hood framed a sickly, frail face that exuded death like a rotting corpse would. His limbs were bony and a dull silver plaque with strange inscriptions hung from a steel chain over his chest.
Ahiram lunged forward, his sword at the ready. The blade sheared through the rider and as it did so, the Silent heard a strident shriek, a scream of pain, at once distant and close. The rider’s shape became fuzzy for a moment, then reformed.
Ahiram breathed into his mask and bolts of fire hit the winged creature, but an invisible shield deflected them. He grabbed his tile and was about to throw it when the rider pointed a crooked finger at Ahiram and a web of blood-red luminous threads assailed the Silent, who fell to the ground moaning in pain. Immediately, another web of bright white threads shot up from his bag and shielded the Silent from the red web. Instantly, his pain eased, although it did not go away entirely.
Lightning struck the ground nearby in a succession of blinding explosions. Rain began to fall. In his dazed state, Ahiram glimpsed—or imagined—Sheheluth standing in the rain, facing the winged creature. The pain came back, intensified, and he lost consciousness.
Several hours later, in the southeast region of the great desert, far away from Kesrwan, Huska the Fat leaned his back against the smooth wall of a mountain. He was relieved that his mother was not standing next to him, for he was sweating profusely. Da maternal maker of my frame would yank my ear something fierce, he thought as he tilted his head sideways to avoid an incoming arrow. The air, warm and dry, increased his discomfort, and for once, he would have preferred to be back home in Kim of Kartagenon with his maternal maker of his frame, as he called his mother. Yet, there he was, standing next to a stranger with a strange name and about to die.
“Slippery Slued, what kind of detour is dhat?” he asked as an arrow whizzed by him.
“The kind that went wrong from the start. How was I to know that the Corshad had moved their base of operations inside these canyons?”
They both ducked to avoid a volley of arrows.
“By da way, Slippery Slued,” Huska said, as he dodged another arrow, “what kind of name is yer name? Slippery Slued? Sounds soapy, no?”
“Do you always choose these moments to ask about the origin of names?” Slued retorted as he jumped sideways to avoid another arrow.
A group of masked men drew closer. Their intentions were as hostile as the swords they were holding.
After being caught in a desert storm, Slippery Slued and Huska the Fat lost their way and ended in Corshad territory, an area of the southeastern canyons of the Great Desert under the control of the Sahripat, otherwise known as the desert pirates. Although officially under their control, Corshad fell under the jurisdiction of Sheik Khawand. The Sheik would sometimes utilize the desert pirates to perform his dirty deeds. The Sahripat were known to conduct raids on both land and sea, which made their capture and arrest more difficult; Baal controlled the sea in this region, while the land fell under the jurisdiction of the sheik’s Desert Legions. The Sahripat had successfully played the age-old enmity between the two to their advantage.
“Do
not show any sign of fear,” Slippery Slued whispered. “If you fight courageously, they will kill you on the spot. If you show any sign of fear, they will torture you for their amusement.”
Up until now, Huska had given very little thought to the manner of his death. He had assumed that he would die in a faraway land and in the far distant future. He did not expect the far away land to be here, and the far off future to be now. If I get out of dhat thing alive, I promise ta die honorably, he thought, leaving the definition of honorably until later.
By now, the twelve men had surrounded them and waited for their leader to give the order to attack. Huska the Fat clenched his sword when he saw two of the pirates in front of him jerk uncontrollably before falling to the ground. Two others followed suit, then another two keeled over. The remaining six looked at each other and ran away. An additional two fell, never to get up again.
“What was dhat?” Huska exclaimed.
Slippery placed his hand on the Kartagenan’s mouth. This is not normal, he thought, Who’s helping us? A shadow materialized in front of them, causing Huska to jump of fright. The renowned thief kept his quiet. “Who are you?” he asked. A gray hood hid the features of his interlocutor, who simply bowed down and pointed at the bow that he was holding in his hand. “So I see that you are an archer, and quite a good one at that,” said Slippery. “We want to thank you for saving our lives. What is your name?”
The archer’s gesticulation confirmed that he was mute.
“Dhat’s a dumb archer,” Huska said.
“You mean to say a mute archer?” Slippery Slued corrected.
“Ya. Dhat’s what I said,” insisted Huska, “an archer dhat is…” He did not have the chance to complete his sentence because Slippery Slued’s hand muffled the sound of his voice.
“What do we call you?” Slippery asked. The archer pointed to his bow. “Bow,” Slippery said. The archer nodded his head. “Well, Bow, we owe you our lives. Are you with someone else?”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 42